Daylight

by David Baldacci

“No, and I didn’t ask. I know better.”

  “And he said nothing that would lead you to know where he was going?”

  “Not really.” She paused and looked around the room, as though checking for eavesdroppers. “But if he can’t go back to his house and he hasn’t come back here, there aren’t many places left.”

  “But do you know of any?” asked Pine.

  Axilrod looked around as the door opened and some folks walked in with drinks and cigarettes in hand. She said, “Look, I don’t think we want to talk about this here.”

  Pine said, “Okay, we can go somewhere else. Drinks on me.”

  “You can’t drink if you’re pregnant,” Weathers pointed out.

  “Don’t I know it. I meant I’d spring for drinks for you.”

  Axilrod said, “There’s a place in Chinatown, Lucky Thirteen.”

  “Let’s go,” said Pine. “We can cab over together.”

  Axilrod said, “I’m not sure we should leave together. If something weird is going on here . . . ” She looked worriedly at Weathers.

  Weathers said, “I know where Lucky Thirteen is. I can meet you there.”

  Pine didn’t look pleased. “Okay. But Sheila, if you don’t show, I’m going to be pissed.”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll be there. I swear.”

  Pine and Axilrod headed out past the two guys at the front door, who barely acknowledged their departure.

  Pine said, “If she doesn’t show, do you know where she lives?”

  “No, but it’s in the files at Fort Dix. I can access it.”

  “Good.”

  Before getting on the elevator Axilrod ordered an Uber.

  A dark SUV pulled up front as soon as they hit the street.

  “That’s it,” said Axilrod, glancing at her phone.

  Pine got in first.

  And that was the last thing she remembered before waking up in a dark place with a dead body next to her.

  CHAPTER

  28

  PINE ROLLED TO HER RIGHT and slowly came to. The next moment she was violently sick to her stomach and retched on the floor.

  “Shit.”

  She sat up, rubbing her head and her belly. And froze.

  Sheila Weathers was lying next to her. And unlike Pine, the lady would not be getting back up. The deep, wide gash right under her chin went from ear to ear. Pine looked around for her purse, but it wasn’t there. She had no phone, no light. She had no idea where she was. Or how long she’d been unconscious.

  There was blood everywhere, the floor, the body. She’d been killed here, and the arterial spray had coated the floor and the walls, and the corpse.

  The woman was wearing the same clothes as earlier. Pine touched Weathers’s hand. It was cold, but not ice cold. She moved her arm. No rigor. The woman’s death hadn’t happened all that long ago.

  This made Pine think of something. She examined every inch of herself she could. Someone had taken her shoes and her bomber jacket, leaving her in just her jeans and shirt. There was blood on her shirt, her jeans, and her arms. She ran a hand across her face and felt the coagulated blood there. She touched her hair and felt it matted down with blood, too.

  They must have killed her while I was lying here. She died right here, and her blood sprayed all over me while I was unconscious.

  Her stomach lurched again, and she took deep breaths to keep the bile in her gut and her nerves from running away from her.

  Okay, this was a crime scene, and she had to treat it as such.

  And I’m part of that crime scene.

  That was when she saw it. The knife. It was within a foot of her leg. She drew closer to it. She looked at the bloody handle and then at her bloody hand. She drew even closer, trying to see if . . . Shit, what if they had placed her hand around the knife while she was unconscious?

  Then my prints will be on the murder weapon.

  She scooted away from the body, sat on her rear, and took a long look around, trying to find some way out.

  The walls were wood, and so was the floor. There were no windows that she could see. Pine continued to run her gaze around the walls until she came to a single door. It was made of wood and looked stout.

  She got up and padded over to it in her bare feet.

  She tried the door. It was locked.

  Of course it’s locked.

  Then it occurred to her. Where the hell was Lindsey Axilrod? She’d gotten into the Uber with her.

  Or had she?

  Pine tried to recall every moment, but it was a complete muddle. Whatever they had used on her must have had an amnesiac component because her memory was blank.

  So had they killed Axilrod, too? Was her body in one of the darkened corners of this room? Had her throat been slashed? Was Pine covered in her blood, too?

  But then her thoughts recalibrated as she considered the matter more closely. She recalled that Axilrod had ordered the Uber and then identified the vehicle as being their Uber, which was the only reason Pine had gotten into the vehicle. Well, it had not been their Uber. It had not been an Uber at all, which left one obvious conclusion.

  She set me up and I fell right for it.

  Axilrod must be in on whatever was going on. Pine had gone to her, thinking she was simply a potential witness or lead to get to Vincenzo. And she played that role well, trying to convince Pine that nothing nefarious was going on. Then, she probably became afraid that if she didn’t play along Pine would make good on her threat to send a search team to the apartment. She had no doubt arranged for there to be a “party” after she had met with Pine. Otherwise, it would have been a coincidence indeed that on the same day she had met Axilrod such an event would be scheduled. And when Weathers had started to talk, it had been Axilrod who suggested leaving the place. And to have Weathers leave separately.

  Pine groaned at her gullibility. But she had been so fixated on finding out information, and, to her credit, Axilrod had played her role to perfection. She was clearly experienced in the art of deception.

  And now I’m probably being framed for Weathers’s murder.

  She had to get out of here. She slammed her shoulder against the door. It didn’t budge.

  Then she froze as the sounds of footsteps reached her.

  “Here, kitty, kitty,” said a voice. “Here, kitty cat.”

  Pine backed away into the darkest corner she could find.

  “Come out come out wherever you are,” said the man tauntingly, which made Pine’s blood burn.

  The confident footsteps grew closer and suddenly a beam of light shot out and across the warehouse space.

  “It will be faster if you don’t run,” said the voice. “If you run, I’ll make it slow. If you stand still, it’ll be over in a second. One little cut and it’s over. I promise, kitty, kitty.”

  The man came around the corner. Pine squinted to see him better. He was tall, lean, broad shouldered. Maybe around her age. And the knife he held was serrated and glistened in the light. It had a curved blade and looked like something a ninja warrior might use to finish off a foe.

  “I know you can hear me, kitty cat.”

  “Why did you kill Weathers?” Pine said as she slipped away and took up position in another corner.

  “Don’t be slow on the uptake. You told her you were pregnant with her boyfriend’s baby. She got pissed. You met up here. Got in a fight. You killed her, kitty, kitty, but not before she cut you with the knife I’m holding right now. It just took longer for you to bleed out. Then it’s case closed.”

  “No one is going to believe that.”

  “That’s not my department. I’m a specialist. I’m sure you know in what.”

  “Bullshit.” As soon as she spoke, Pine moved again. Her movements weren’t haphazard. They were methodical. And she was now glad they had taken her shoes. She could move silently.

  And the man was now moving toward where the sound of her voice had come from.

  “You’re running away. I told you not to do that.
”

  “Help me, someone help me,” cried out Pine, drawing his attention to the spot, but she had already moved.

  “There is no one to help you.”

  He crept forward. No more talking. He was focused and wary, and maybe a little nervous that things were not going exactly to plan.

  The powerful kick to his back sent the man headlong into the opposite wall. He slowly rose but Pine had already charged forward and struck him with a thunderous right hook, followed by a whip kick to his neck. He toppled to the side, cursing and moaning.

  She barked, “Come here, kitty, kitty. So I can finish this.”

  He staggered up, grabbed a box, and threw it at her. She dodged out of the way, but that gave him time to grab the knife that he’d dropped.

  “Now we’ll see how good you are, bitch—”

  A second later the knife was flying out of his hand as Pine crushed it with another whip kick and then locked the man down in an arm bar. She pitched forward, taking his limb to an angle that it had never been designed to go, and they landed on the floor. She jerked back with all her strength on his arm.

  He screamed as multiple bones and tendons in his arm snapped all at once. He kicked at her, slamming a knee into her arm, which sent pain rocketing up and down her right side. Then he did it a second time, which made her let go. The two scrambled to their feet. As Pine was preparing to attack again, her foot slipped and she went down, hard.

  He took the opportunity to run away, holding his ruined arm and sobbing in pain.

  In a few seconds he had disappeared. Somewhere in the distance, Pine heard another door open and then slam shut.

  “And I hate fucking cats,” she screamed in his direction.

  Pine slowly rose and shook out her arm where a stinger she’d gotten from the right hook she’d struck him with had gone all the way up her shoulder. She turned to the door again, backed up a bit, then ran forward, pivoted, and kicked her right leg out, smashing her toughened heel against the wood. The door buckled under the thunderous blow but did not open.

  She set her feet, studied the door, and then fired off a front knee kick right below the lock. The shaft broke free from the doorjamb, and the weakened portal swung loose on its hinges.

  She peered out to see an ill-lighted set of stairs leading down. She listened for a few seconds, for footsteps, breathing, words, anything that would give away the presence of someone other than her being here.

  She went down the steps tentatively, reached a landing, turned, and kept going down. At the bottom of the stairs, she paused in front of the door. There was a window next to it, but it had been blacked out. She could hear noises outside, cars, what might have been a conversation, the screech of a cat, more cars.

  She reached out and turned the doorknob. To her surprise the door was unlocked.

  She drew a long breath, and swung the door open. She looked out onto a darkened street, where it was raining steadily. She saw no passersby, which made sense on such an inclement night, and she had no idea how late it was.

  A car passed by and was gone before she could step outside. She went down a short flight of steps and reached the ground.

  An instant later she was hit by a strong spotlight.

  “NYPD. Get down on the pavement, hands behind your head. Do it. Now.”

  Pine sank down to the pavement and put her hands behind her head.

  “Don’t shoot,” she cried out.

  Damn, this night is just getting better and better.

  CHAPTER

  29

  JOHN PULLER HAD GRABBED a bumpy ride in a jump seat on a military transport plane into Andrews Air Force Base. From there he’d bummed a ride with an agent in the Air Force’s CID with whom he’d worked a joint case. This ride dropped him at the metro, and he rode the subway to his final destination. The Pentagon was the largest office building on earth.

  It had been in the middle of a renovation when one of its five sides had received a gut punch on 9/11 in the form of a hijacked American Airlines jumbo jet piloted by Saudis intent on bringing down the country. In addition to all the passengers on the jet, more than a hundred people had died sitting behind their desks or walking along a corridor or just chatting with colleagues. A small memorial chapel had been erected at the spot where the jet had hit. But the facility had been quickly repaired and was now stronger than ever. It would have to be, thought Puller. Because the world kept getting more unpredictable by the minute.

  He cleared security after showing his cred pack and relaying to the guards that he was armed. He walked down a labyrinth of corridors without an escort, keeping tightly to the route he knew well. The Pentagon had nearly eighteen miles of halls, with Rings A to E and Corridors One to Ten on the main level. You could work here your entire career and still get lost, although the way it was designed a trip between two points shouldn’t take longer than seven minutes. Puller had never gone awry in finding any location in Afghanistan or Iraq, but he had become lost multiple times here. Each one had been a humbling event, especially the one time when an elderly woman, a veteran and visitor that day, had taken him by the hand and guided him to where he needed to go. Almost the reverse scenario of the vintage image of a Boy Scout helping an older person cross the street.

  He entered the office suite, where the spacious anteroom and displayed flags denoted the ultrahigh rank of the man he was meeting tonight. This was the vice chair of the Joint Chiefs. He was the second-highest-ranking person in the U.S. military world. The vice chair received his fourth star upon elevation to the position. By law he could not be in the same military branch as the chairman. Currently the chairman was Air Force; the vice chair wore the same uniform as Puller, which was one of the reasons Puller was here.

  The junior officer greeted Puller and led him into the interior office, which was of a size befitting the man’s lofty position. On one wall was the “wall of love,” as the Army liked to call it. It was a photo array of the VIPs smiling, shaking hands, and rubbing shoulders with the current occupant of this office.

  And that would be Tom Pitts, around five eleven, built like a chunk of granite, with facial features to match. The grip of his handshake equaled that of Puller, who was around twenty-five years younger. The four stars rode well on his broad shoulders. He was one of only fourteen four-stars in the entire Army, and one of only forty-two in the entire Armed Forces of the United States. A combat veteran, Pitts had more than earned every medal and ribbon.

  “I went by to see your old man the other day,” began Pitts.

  Puller was a bit surprised by this, and his face showed it as they sat down across from each other on matching couches set next to Pitts’s desk.

  “I didn’t know that,” said Puller.

  “I would have given you a heads-up, but the fact was it was a spur-of-the-moment thing. We were passing by the VA hospital and . . . I just wanted to see Fighting John Puller.”

  “You don’t need my permission, sir. I’m sure he enjoyed seeing you.”

  “Your father’s forgotten more about leading soldiers into battle than I’ll ever know.”

  Puller looked down. “He’s forgotten a lot, sir. Too much.”

  Pitts’s features clouded. “A poor choice of words on my part. I’m sorry. I understand his condition is not . . . going to improve?”

  “No sir, not unless there’s a miracle.”

  Pitts nodded slowly, his features somber and faraway. Then he snapped back, like a crisp salute. “But you didn’t come here for that. What can I do for you?”

  It took Puller about two minutes to fully bring Pitts up to speed. The general’s face grew longer and longer as Puller went on. When he was finished Pitts said, “I’m not sure I’ve heard anything that extraordinary. It’s inexplicable.”

  “I thought the same. But with the roadblocks being thrown up, and as you used to be the head of CID, I thought you might want to be made aware.”

  “And your chain of command?”

  Puller cleared his t
hroat and took a few moments to compose his response with great care. There was nothing so sacred in the Army as the chain of command. A soldier who went outside of it better have a damn good reason, and even that wasn’t always enough.

  He ended with, “So, you can see that I went through all the usual channels, sir.”

  “Yes, I can. And?”

  “And none of my issues have been resolved. And my superiors seem to be as perplexed as I am.”

  “That is not acceptable.”

  “I thought you might see it that way.”

  “You’re investigating crimes involving military personnel. You have every right to pursue whatever lead and whatever evidence comes your way. There is no provision for anyone blocking your access, civilian or military, and certainly not the government.”

  “Well, some folks apparently have not gotten that message.”

  “I will follow that up. You have a job to do and you should be allowed to do it.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Leave it with me for now. But come back to see me in twenty-four hours. I’ll know more by then.”

  Pitts stood and so did Puller. He knew the general probably had ten more meetings before he was going to call it quits for the day, and every one of them almost certainly dealt with far more pressing matters.

  Puller departed and hurried back down the hallway. He had debated long and hard on whether to call in the chit represented by Pitts, but then decided he had nothing to lose.

  Outside he stared back at the building that, ever since its construction during World War II, had been synonymous with the might of the American military. It had taken some heat during unpopular wars and been heralded when things turned out okay. Puller knew that was just the way the world worked. But at least the building was still here. Puller never hoped for war. No soldier he’d ever met did. But if it came to it, the country needed a place just like this.

  Unfortunately, in a little over an hour he would be back in combat.

  CHAPTER

  30